


Seeing Hell in His Mirror

by orphean



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery, Star Trek: Mirror Universe
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 13:53:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13660362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: ‘That’s unreasonable.’ He knew how dangerous it was to contradict any wish of the Emperor’s, but he also knew how time worked, and a report of the scope and depth that she expected from him would take days, if not weeks, to prepare.‘Unreasonable?’ Lorca chuckled, shaking his head. ‘I might have to report you for that. Of course,’ He leered and cornered Stamets against his desk, leather pressed up against leather, ‘I’m sure I could convince the Emperor to give you some more time.’ Stamets huffed and tried to move, but Lorca caught his wrists and held him still. ‘Really, Paul? We’ve been getting along so well.’-----Gabriel Lorca visits Paul Stamets in his laboratory.





	Seeing Hell in His Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Ezra Pound's "Canto X VI". I am so sorry.

Gabriel Lorca – right-hand man of the emperor and captain of the _I.S.S. Buran_  – sauntered into Paul Stamets’ laboratory. It was a saunter, yes, but with his hand on his dagger and his head held high, he was a man with a purpose. Stamets sighed and put down his PADD and turned to face Lorca, who was studying one of the specimen, mycelial strands caught in a perfect glass sphere. He grabbed it from him and placed it out of his reach.

‘Don’t touch that. What do you want?’

‘Oh, Paul.’ Lorca grinned and moved a little closer, lifting his hands as though he had nothing to fear. The scientist knew better. ‘I have been sent by our lord and master. Emperor Georgiou wants a progress report on your research.’

‘I don’t have a report for her.’ Stamets stepped backwards, keeping the distance between him and the captain until he came to a stop up against his desk.

‘She wants it now.’

‘That’s unreasonable.’ He knew how dangerous it was to contradict any wish of the Emperor’s, but he also knew how time worked, and a report of the scope and depth that she expected from him would take days, if not weeks, to prepare.

‘Unreasonable?’ Lorca chuckled, shaking his head. ‘I might have to report you for that. Of course,’ He leered and cornered Stamets against his desk, leather pressed up against leather, ‘I’m sure I could convince the Emperor to give you some more time.’ Stamets huffed and tried to move, but Lorca caught his wrists and held him still. ‘Really, Paul? We’ve been getting along so well.’

‘Captain, I–‘

‘Gabriel, please,’ Lorca’s mouth was by his ear, purring the last word, a plea that Stamets knew he didn’t truly mean.

‘OK – _Gabriel_ – I don’t have time for this. If the emperor needs the report stat, I really need to –‘

‘Come on, I’ll sweet-talk her into being just a little patient.’ Lorca’s thumbs were tracing circles on Stamets’ wrists, his grip loosening, no longer hard enough to bruise. ‘It’s all for fun, isn’t it?’

Stamets exhaled through his nose, and he heard Lorca breathe in deep. He already knew who had won.

‘Fine. What do you want?’ His hands were released and Lorca stepped back, leaning against the opposite desk where, until a few months ago, Straal had been sitting, griping about the slow progress on the mycelial project and the Emperor’s ridiculous demands. That was, of course, before the charges of treachery and his exile to an agonizer booth on the lower levels. Stamets had not been to see him. The captain looked him up and down, surveying his prey, before he began unbuckling his belt. The scientist rolled his eyes. ‘Computer, lock doors to my voice print. Access code–‘

‘Belay that, computer.’ Lorca rattled off an access code as he grinned and lifted a hand, beckoning Stamets closer. ‘Are you concerned about decency, Paul? Everyone knows you don’t have any of that left.’

‘Speak for yourself.’ Paul let himself be pulled in and began to work on undoing Lorca’s uniform pants. This was a well-rehearsed dance, in which Stamets refused and Lorca cajoled, and which always ended with Stamets on his knees. They had never kissed and Lorca had never touched him. He would intimate that he would, and he would run his fingers down Stamets’ chest, teasing him with the things he _could_ do. But he would always leave his hands on his belt, before pulling away and excusing himself, telling Stamets to behave and maybe, just maybe, there was next time. It never was. And he was torn, because there was one part of him that wanted nothing to do with Lorca, disgusted by his scheming, his confidence, his promiscuity – and yet, another part of him longed for his attention, his rare praises, his rough hands.

‘Go on, then.’ Lorca was leaning against the desk, head tipped back, making him have to tip his own head back to meet his eye. Stamets realised that he had been hesitating, his hands in the middle of undressing him. ‘We don’t have all day.’

Then Lorca’s hand were in his hair, a hard yank to pull him off balance, another pull to bring him to his knees.

‘Captain – Gabriel – sir – I –’ the complaint was perfunctory, all part of the game. He knew what got Lorca off, the subtle mix of subservience and arrogance, of giving and protesting. It was something he was happy to give. What _he_ would get out of it was less clear. One day, he told himself, it would pay off. But then again, the act itself was its own reward.

Lorca’s hands were on Stamets, one still nestled in his hair, another holding his head up by his jaw, a thumb over his lips.

‘Will you behave?’ In response, Stamets bit his teeth together, a disobedient clash of enamel. Lorca’s grip on his hair tightened, hurting now, and his other hand wrapped around his throat, squeezing for a second before letting go. It wasn’t quite enough to make the world  go hazy, not quite, but it was better than anything he could do on his own. The captain’s smile was as lazy and drawling as his accent. ‘Come on, doc. Let’s get clinical.’

The first few times this has happened — in his lab, in the captain’s ready room, in a disused guard room three minutes from the Emperor’s throne room — Lorca’s grip had been unyielding: hard enough that a dotted line of bruises formed on his neck; deep enough that, later, it hurt to swallow. Straal had noticed the bruises and mocked him for his weakness. After those times, the pressure had lessened, just a little. His fingers were wrapped in his hair, not pulling at it. The hand that rested on the back of his neck was a warning, not a punishment.

So Stamets did what he always did, opened his mouth and breathed through his nose. With his tongue flat and his breath slow, with Lorca’s hand at the back of his head, he knew what to expect. Stabilising himself, a hand resting on his thigh, Stamets did all the things he knew would drive him mad: whimpering for the reverberations in his throat, curling his tongue, moving slow and deep and maddening. Lorca’s fingers dug hard into his scalp.

‘You know, Paul, you’re wasted as a scientist.’ Lorca’s voice was conversational but his words were broken up with small noises of pleasure, small signs that he was less in control than he thought of himself. Stamets could hear the strained note in his voice, and he redoubled his efforts. ‘There’s this delightful little whorehouse on Orion. That’s where — fuck, that’s good — you would really thrive.’

Stamets made a half-hearted effort to pull away and argue, point out that his career as a scientist is at least as remarkable as his skill with his mouth, but Lorca held him in place. He ran his fingers through his hair, murmuring gruff words of encouragement, the half-hearted compliments broken up by swearing. When Lorca moved his hand from his neck, Stamets knew he was close. His hand, he knew, would be up against his mouth, biting into his knuckles to stay quiet. He came with a final thrust and a muffled moan.

When Lorca released him, Stamets swallowed and wiped his mouth before getting up and redoing his belt.

‘I should get back to work, then.’

‘So soon?’ Lorca’s voice was teasing and leering, challenging him. His fingers wrapped around Stamets’ wrists again, thumbs pushing into soft skin. He had removed his gloves, bare fingers now pushing up against his skin. ‘I’m not done with you yet.’ This was new. Usually Lorca, when they were in the labs, would leave as soon as he was done, or, if they were anywhere else, would dismissively tell him to get lost.

‘Didn’t I do enough?’ The taste was still in his mouth. Stamets swallowed again and ran his tongue over his teeth, but kept Lorca’s gaze.

‘Oh, dear boy, you’ve done plenty.’ Lorca let go of one of his wrists, touching his face for a second before trailing his hand down his chest, leaning his forehead against his. ‘The question is what I can do for you.’

‘Oh.’ Stamets didn’t know what else to say when Lorca’s hand reached its goal, deftly undoing his belt, then his trousers, then – ‘Oh.’ He said again and glanced down.

‘Eyes on me.’ Lorca’s other hand left his wrist and grabbed his hair again, holding his head in place. Lorca’s eyes pierced through him, that frightening blue that held nothing but confidence and power. ‘I want you to look at me when you come.’

‘And before that?’ The quip made the corner of Lorca’s mouth twist. His touch was featherlight but certain, his strokes smooth and confident. Stamets bit his lip and swallowed to stifle a whimper.

‘Don’t be coy. It doesn’t look good on you.’ his voice was a murmur, commanding, demanding. Despite himself, Stamets found himself wanting to please him. ‘Tell me, Paul. Are you loyal to me?’

‘I’m loyal to the Empire.’ Lorca laughed at this — or maybe he laughed at how he to strain, already, to keep his voice steady.

‘Are you loyal to Georgiou?’ He touched his face again, holding his chin between finger and thumb. ‘She would never deign to do this — debase herself like this. Me, though — well, I’m considerate. I just want your loyalty, Paul. If you promise me to be loyal, I can give you—‘ and the rhythm changed, slower, teasing, and when Stamets pushed against it, Lorca twisted his hair and shook his head, ‘if you _behave_ , I can give you so much more. You want that, don’t you? You’re lonely.’

‘I’m not lonely,’ Stamets protested, barely able to recognise his own voice — needy, trembling, begging — and he was clenching and unclenching his fists, hoping to maintain some kind of control, ‘I have my mushrooms.’

‘Your mushrooms can’t give you what I can. If only you behave — if only you promise to be loyal to _me_ , I can give you everything.’ Stamets opened his mouth to argue, to insist that, no, this wasn’t something he wanted, and yes, he was perfectly happy with his mushrooms and nothing else and anyway at least his spores taste minty whereas Lorca, he tasted like – but he lost his train of thought as he changed pace again, harder now, relentless.

He found it hard to do anything at all, then, biting his tongue to stay quiet, staring back at Lorca who smiled at him, the smile of a cobra that had found its meal for the week.  He licked his lips and leaned their foreheads together, murmuring encouragements in a voice that crackled with static. The words bled together in his ears — _come on, lieutenant, come for me, don’t make me order you_ — and Lorca didn’t even chastise him when he broke eye contact, when his eyes flickered shut in an attempt _not_ to come, instead entreating him to stop denying him, stop denying himself this, _so come on, Paul, do this for your captain_.

Stamets came, gasping and swearing, grabbing onto Lorca’s arm to stay standing, to keep his balance. He half-expected, even in the haze of an orgasm long overdue, to be pushed away for touching when not invited, but Lorca allowed it, grinning darkly, eyes shining. Stamets thought he could drown in those eyes. After a couple of moments, still breathing hard, he righted himself and let go of Lorca’s arm. Not sure if he was dismissed, he stayed where he stood.

‘How are you feeling?’ The question, coming from a man who never was interested in anyone but himself, seemed strange. Stamets gave a half-shrug, murmured a non-committal sound. Lorca lifted his hand, slick and sticky with cum, and studied it. He was quiet for a moment, before remarking: ‘You made quite a mess.’

His mouth twitched — with amusement? With expectation? — when he offered his hand to Paul. He didn’t say a word, he didn’t make a demand, but it was still an order. It was a test.

Paul hesitated for a second before he opened his mouth again. Lapping, sucking, swallowing, he licked the hand clean, while keeping Lorca’s gaze. He could feel his breath on his face as he curled his tongue around his thumb, heavy and warm and excited. He exhaled a slow shuddering breath when Stamets, satisfied, took a step back and straightened, lifting his head in defiance.

‘Paul—‘ he said, the name rolling in his mouth, admiring and disdainful all at once, ‘not even the boys on Orion do that. And I _pay_ them.’ Stamets moved, returning to his desk, and tried to ignore the sting of the insult. He swallowed again, hoping the bitter taste would leave. He hoped that Lorca would leave, but he stayed in place, leaning against the opposing desk, studying him. ‘You’re such a good pet.’

‘I’m not your pet.’ He picked up a PADD and busied himself with equations that didn’t make sense, but maybe the action would make Lorca give up.

‘So you are the emperor’s?’ Lorca took a step towards Stamets’ desk, reaching over and picking up the same specimen sphere he had been fingering earlier. He held it up to the half-light, examining it.

‘I belong to no one.’ He wanted to tell Lorca to put the sample down again, to leave him alone and let him get on with the damn report. Lorca looked at him, frowning. He moved the orb in his hand, twirling it and then, throwing it in the air, letting it bounce up and up and down and down. Stamets opened his mouth to tell him to put it down _now_ but the words wouldn’t come.

‘Hm.’ Lorca caught the sphere every time he threw it, catching it with lithe fingers and letting it spin up into the air again. ‘There will come a day when you will have to choose where your loyalties lie. For your sake, Lieutenant, I hope you make your mind up soon.’ He threw the sphere into the air again, the mycelial spores glistening through the crystal — up up up up —

— and the globe crashed on the floor. Stamets saw the world move in slow-motion when Lorca moved his hand, letting the globe slide off his fingertips. Stamets reached out for the sample, but too late. He must have made a sound when it fell, when days of work smashed into nothing, and for a moment he felt the smell of mint and the boundless energy those spores could have — should have — offered before they evaporated into the nothing where he had found them. The captain chuckled.

‘If you don’t—‘ moving toward the door, Lorca stepped on the shards of glass, crunching under his metalled boots, ‘I can’t say what’ll happen to you.’ The door hissed as it opened. ‘Finish the report by tomorrow evening. I’ll send someone for it.’


End file.
